


Taking Over Me

by parapraxis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parapraxis/pseuds/parapraxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Relationships are hard work, especially if you can't even define what exactly your relationship is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://31.media.tumblr.com/cf329b7136b103bb897e9c701cad51b5/tumblr_mz00y0Dwup1sfqtjso1_500.jpg) and [this](http://24.media.tumblr.com/69d58072f0a4543e9983aeab78124361/tumblr_mz3p9zLZqw1qdf97mo1_1280.jpg) and [this.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4wih2D0PP1r10ehso1_500.jpg) Yes, I know the tie isn't the same... just pretend it is.
> 
> Thanks to [MerindaB](http://merindab.tumblr.com/) for reading along and fixing all my grammatical errors.

Greg fumbled with the tie as he tried to manhandle it into a suitable knot around his neck, growling a curse under his breath at the offending piece of uncooperative fabric. He had never really been a tie person and, unlike riding a bicycle, one often did forget how to properly tie a necktie if they weren’t in regular practice.

A soft chuckle reached his ears and Greg’s eyes met Mycroft’s in the mirror as the other man watched in amusement from the open bedroom door. “A piece of advice,” Mycroft’s words were spoken with precision and adoration as he moved to stand behind Lestrade, hands coming to gently rest on the detective’s shoulders as lips pressed lightly against the side of his neck. “Don’t become a tailor.”

Lestrade released a long-suffering sigh, his eyes rolling upward in irritation and making Mycroft chuckle again as long arms encircled him and slender fingers replaced his on the tie. Greg leaned back slightly against Mycroft’s chest as his eyes fixated on their reflection in the mirror, watching the slightly older man weave the fabric into a perfect knot with experienced finesse before slipping it up into place.

“There,” Mycroft said with a fond smile as he folded down Greg’s collar and smoothed it out.

“I’m never going to learn to tie these things properly if you keep doing it for me,” Greg chided softly, picking up the tail end of the tie and looking down at the blue and white polka dotted pattern. “Think Sherlock will notice I’m wearing your tie?”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve worn one of my ties, Gregory,” Mycroft replied with a slight smirk. “Besides, Sherlock will have plenty of other things to occupy his mind today. John is, after all, getting married.”

Lestrade turned, giving Mycroft a prayerful look. “You’re not really going to make me go alone to this thing, are you? I know you hate weddings, but so do I…why can’t we be miserable together?”

“I highly doubt John and Mary would want to have quarreling siblings as the entertainment for their… special day.”

“So, don’t fight with him.” Lestrade offered, knowing exactly who Mycroft was referring to.

“It isn’t me you have to convince,” Mycroft claimed, pressing a kiss against Greg’s forehead. “It’s only a couple of hours; you’ll survive without me there.”

Greg furrowed his brow in annoyance as Mycroft turned and started to walk away again, headed towards the study for his daily jog on the treadmill. “I would go if you asked me, y’know.”

Mycroft paused at the door, turning towards Lestrade with disappointment etched into the lines on his face. “You aren’t really trying to guilt me into attending with you, are you?. It’s a wedding, for god’s sake, not a wake. You’ll go and watch two people make a horrible mistake in front of their peers, have a bit of dinner, do a bit of dancing, and then you’ll come home and spend the rest of the evening with me. Now…how difficult is that?”

“If it’s not that difficult, then come with me.”

Mycroft sighed in response.

“Alright, if you won't do it for me," Greg relented tiredly. "Will you at least do it for John?"

Mycroft could feel the dull ache beginning in his temples, threatening a migraine if this back and forth didn't soon end. "Why would I possibly go for John Watson if I wasn't going to for you? I owe him no debt of gratitude."

"Right, ‘cos John's never done a damn thing for you.” Lestrade’s temper was beginning to flare.

“And what, pray, has he done for me?” Implored Mycroft with waning patience.

“Oh, I dunno...Looking out for Sherlock? Saving his life?”

"You don’t honestly believe John Watson was doing any of that for my benefit, do you?" Mycroft asked, slightly amused by the sheer idiocy of such a sentiment. "Whatever loyalties exist between my brother and John, I can assure you, I had nothing to do with it. John no more cares for me than my own dear brother."

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief, “You really think Sherlock doesn’t give a toss about you?”

“I know he doesn’t.” Mycroft gave an indifferent shrug, “Sherlock has always been so very resentful.”

“Resentful of what?”

“The fact that I’m the smart one. He’s dedicated his entire life to trying to prove me wrong.” A light smile lifted Mycroft’s lips, “He never will, though. Maybe I’ll let him, just once, when I’m on my deathbed...or he, his.”

“Charming.” Lestrade replied with dry sarcasm as he turned back to the mirror to check himself over. “So, what you’re saying is that because you and your brother can’t behave like adults, I’ve got to go to this bloody thing by myself?”

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “Are we really back on that again?”

“Just tell me why you won’t go. A real answer.”

“What makes you think I haven’t been truthful?” Mycroft evaded.

"Stop playing games, Mycroft!" Lestrade growled, slamming his fist down on the vanity in frustration and nearly toppling the mirror braced on its top. He turned back to look at his lover, an angry crease in his brow as he crossed the room to stand toe-to-toe with the other man. “How bloody long have I known you? Stop treating me like I’m a sodding idiot! When’s the last time we were in the same bloody room together with your brother? You think I don’t know what this is all about?"

“Don’t be ridicu—“

“No.” Greg thrust his finger into Mycroft’s chest. “Don’t you dare tell me I’m the ridiculous one. It isn’t for John and Mary’s sake that you’re not going; it’s because you’re ashamed to let Sherlock see you with me. Even if we stand on opposite ends of the room all night, you’re afraid he’s going to spot one of my hairs on your jacket or something and discover the whole bloody affair! Tell me I’m wrong.” Lestrade implored, looking up into Mycroft’s eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll shut my gob and go to the bloody wedding alone. Just tell me I’m wrong”

Giving Lestrade a bored look, Mycroft waited a beat before asking, “Are you quite finished?”

Lestrade’s lips drew into a fine, tight line as his gaze turned hard and cold. "Oh yes. Quite finished." His voice was like ice as he shouldered his way past Mycroft, knocking the other man back a step. 

Mycroft fought the urge to stop Lestrade, words of apology leaving a bitter taste on his tongue as he swallowed them down. His gut twisted as he heard Greg kick the banister at the top of the stairs before heavy feet plodded down each step as Lestrade, quite literally, stormed out of the house. Mycroft held his breath, knowing from previous experience that there would be one more tell-tale sign of Greg’s departure, and--like clockwork--the front door slammed shut moments later.

Releasing the breath heavily, Mycroft rubbed the ache in his temple as he approached the bedroom window and peered out through the open curtain, watching Greg stalk towards his car. A kick to the rear tire before narrowed eyes peered up at him, a scowl set deep on his face. A quick mental calculation told Mycroft that it was going to be at least a day before Greg spoke to him again. Sometimes there was just no reasoning with the man.

You should have told him the truth. A voice nagged at him inside his mind and he gave a slight shake of his head to silence it, turning abruptly away from the window and continuing on towards the study for his run.

\--

Lestrade stomped on the gas, tires spinning gravel before taking purchase and lurching the car forward. Knuckles white from the death grip he had on the steering wheel, Greg muttered obscenities as he turned off onto the main road. He was furious with Mycroft--would it have killed the man to suck it up for a few hours and attend the wedding with him? Sometimes Mycroft could be the biggest prat.

Checking his watch, Lestrade realized he still had a few hours to kill before he had to be at the ceremony, and there was nothing he wanted more than a good, stiff drink. He knew the area around the church about as well as the sewer system under London, so he decided to make a pit stop before reaching his final destination.

The atmosphere inside the Wayward Dog was exactly what Greg was looking for in a pub--dimly lit, air heavy with smoke and the lingering scent of stale beer, and one lone telly mounted above the bar airing the game between the London Wasps and Gloucester Rugby. The Wasps were down by more than a handful of points, and the patron at the end of the bar was loudly voicing his discontent.

Despite his foul mood, a smile crept up on Greg’s face and he plopped himself on top of a bar stool, indicating to the barkeep for a drink. As the frothy pint of bitter was set before him, the elder barman leaned on the bar across from Greg. 

“Start you a tab?”

“Ta.” Lestrade answered with a nod as he lifted the drink to his lips and took his first pull. Twisting the glass between his hands, Greg let his mind wander over the mystery that was Mycroft Holmes . 

He’d been a lowly sergeant when he and Mycroft had first met, nearly a decade ago now. The system had been ripe with corruption and scandal, and it had seemed that everyone around Lestrade had been involved in some way. When the dark sedan had pulled up in front of him one night, and a shadowy figure had told him to get in, Lestrade had felt like he was in the middle of an American mafia film. Mycroft hadn’t give his name then, instead referring to himself as an ‘interested party.’ 

“Interested in what?” Lestrade had asked distrustfully.

Mycroft had simply given him that irritatingly superior smirk in response and had told him, again, to get in. Despite all his training that told him not to, Lestrade had gotten into the car. They drove around London with no particular destination as Mycroft gave him intel on the source of the corruption within Scotland Yard and who was responsible. 

“Why are you telling me all this? If you know about it, why don’t you do something to stop it?”

“You have a very promising career ahead of you, Sergeant Lestrade. One that, I’m quite certain, depends on you bringing this scandal to light.”

They had stopped again at the same location where the car had picked him up, and Mycroft had rolled the window down after Greg had gotten out. “The choice is yours, of course, Sergeant...I will be in touch.”

“Yeah but, I don’t even know your name.”

“Holmes,” the man had said with that same smug smile. “Mycroft Holmes. Goodnight, Sergeant Lestrade.” 

It had been weeks before Mycroft had turned up again, and conveniently just as Greg had stalled on out his end of the investigation. The car that had picked him up had been empty, save for the driver, and Lestrade’s question on where they were going had gone unanswered until the car had stopped in front of a row modest houses. Greg had picked his way up the front steps cautiously, not fully knowing what to expect, but comforted by the gun concealed under his coat in the shoulder holster.

He’d been let into the house by a young woman and lead to a nearby room that turned out to be Mycroft’s study. The man himself had been seated at a stately desk, a glass of whiskey set before him, and an expectant look on his face. “Well?”

“Well what? I’ve got nothing else to go on.” Greg had replied with slightly more venom in his words than he’d intended. “Sorry...I’m just frustrated.”

“Sit down, Sergeant; it seems like you could use a drink.”

As they drank, Lestrade went over all the details of his investigation with Mycroft, hoping the man would give him a clue or some direction in which to go, but Mycroft had only irritated him by making him think of his own solutions. The memory had burned itself vividly in Lestrade’s mind--not because of the case he was working, but because that night had been the first night they’d kissed.

Greg had had a little too much to drink and his temper had flared as Mycroft continue to hound him for answers. Finally, Lestrade had snapped, grabbing Mycroft by the front of his shirt and slamming him up against the wall. “Stop fucking around with me! If you know what I should do, then just bloody tell me!”

Mycroft had looked only mildly surprised as Greg held him in place, panting in response to his own ire. Lestrade remembered how Mycroft had felt pinned under him, helpless to move, those gunmetal blue eyes watching him, waiting for his next move. Maybe it had been the alcohol or the heat between their bodies, but Lestrade had hauled Mycroft down and claimed his lips roughly.

The kiss had lasted only a few moments before Mycroft had lightly pushed Lestrade back a step. “You’re drunk, Sergeant… go home to your wife.”

Greg had done as he’d been told, but it hadn’t been his wife he’d been thinking about as they’d made love that night...it had been Mycroft Holmes.

Lestrade took a deep breath as he let the memory fade back into the recesses of his mind, taking another pull off his pint. He’d always been certain that Mycroft had had something to do with his promotion to Detective Inspector after arrests had been made and bad cops had been canned, but Mycroft had never owned up to any credit. In fact, Lestrade hadn’t seen or heard from Mycroft again after that night until he’d received a strange call years later.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” the polished voice had said.

Lestrade looked at the clock on the bedside table, noting it was nearly 3 in the morning. “Who is this?”

“An interested party,” the voice had continued after a small pause.

“Mycroft?”

“There is something I need you to do for me. And I would appreciate...discretion.”

Lestrade rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Yeah...okay… what?”

“I need you to lead a drug bust and take a certain person into custody. Hold him overnight, but do not book him.”

“I can’t do--”

“Find a way.”

Lestrade sighed. “Alright...who am I busting?”

“Sherlock Holmes...my brother.”

Greg had realized later that the arrest was Mycroft’s way of intervening in his brother’s life, attempting to keep Sherlock from destroying himself. It was probably one of the few times that Mycroft showed anything akin to open concern towards Sherlock. It had also been the start of Lestrade’s association with the younger Holmes brother.  
Though Lestrade and Mycroft had kept in contact--mostly so that Lestrade could report in about Sherlock’s whereabouts and whether or not he still seemed to be using--it wasn’t until almost two years later that the two had seen each other again.

The dark sedan had pulled up in the parking garage as Lestrade was heading to his car after a very long evening at a crime scene in Brixton that had turned into an even longer night doing paperwork. Lestrade was tired and wanted to go home, and when he’d seen the car, he’d actually cursed aloud.

“What do you know about John Watson?” Mycroft had asked him as soon as Lestrade was in the car.

“Nice to see you again too, Mycroft. You could have just phoned, y’know?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” the elder man had replied casually. “So tell me, John Watson?”

“The bloke that was with your brother tonight? Never met him before; why?”

“He and Sherlock have taken residence with one another. Former army doctor--wounded in battle.”

“Right...and?”

“It doesn’t strike you as odd? You’ve known my brother for a few years now, Inspector. Has he ever seemed like the type to have ‘friends?’”

Lestrade rubbed his temples. “You’ve shown up in the middle of the bloody night because Sherlock’s got a friend? No offense, but why do you care?”

“I worry about him.” Mycroft admitted after a beat. 

“You could try telling him that.” 

Mycroft offered a sour look, “No, I don’t think so. I need you to keep me abreast of any developments concern Dr. Watson and my brother.”

“Such as?”

“Anything unusual.”

“Right...so…everything, then?”

Mycroft had smirked at that, and once again the car had delivered Lestrade back to the place it had picked him up. “Goodnight, Inspector. I expect I will be seeing you again very soon.”

“You could at least invite me over for a drink next time,” Greg had hollered somewhat irritably as the car drove off again. “Make it worth my bloody while.”

When Mycroft had shown up a few days later at the crime scene where the serial killing cabbie had been shot, Lestrade was almost amused. He strode over to where the elder Holmes was standing at the yellow caution tape with a young, disinterested woman by his side. “I thought I mentioned Sherlock was okay when I texted you what happened.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Mycroft had replied before dismissing his assistant back to the car. Giving an odd little smile, Mycroft had then said, “How about that drink, Inspector?”

They had gone to Mycroft’s, of course, where they shared several glasses of Jameson while Lestrade had filled Mycroft in on all the details of the case, and Sherlock, and Watson. He was fairly certain that Mycroft already knew more than half of what he was saying, but the elder man was listening patiently as they sat on the sofa, their bodies turned towards each other. 

Lestrade had never been a lightweight when it came to drinking, but the whiskey was starting to affect him in ways he was afraid to admit. Those gunmetal blue eyes were watching him again, and everything about Mycroft exuded a casualness that he’d never observed in the other man before. The way Mycroft’s arm was resting across the back of the couch, the slight lean of his body, the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathed… These were not normal things to notice, Greg noted somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Why do I get the feeling you already know everything I’ve said?” Lestrade finally asked.

“The devil is in the details, so they say. I need to hear it from your lips to ensure I have everything I need.”

“Sometimes I think it would be easier if you just bugged me and listened in.” Greg commented as he drained his glass.

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“Come on, Mycroft...why am I really here?”

“I’m attempting to...’make it worth your while.’”

Something in the elder Holmes’ voice gave Lestrade the impression that he wasn’t just doing him a kindness by offering him a drink, and suddenly the air felt very thick and charged. Mycroft plucked the empty glass from Lestrade’s fingertips, rising from the couch and crossing to the small wet bar to refill their drinks. The memory of that heated kiss several years back flooded Greg’s mind and filled him with a strong desire for a continuation of that night. 

A quick internal debate told him that if he was going to do this, it had to be now while he could still blame everything on the alcohol, so Greg pushed himself off the couch and moved towards Mycroft with sure steps and not stopping until he had pressed himself against the other man’s back, hands braced on either side of Mycroft’s on the granite countertop. 

Unable to resist, Lestrade leaned in close to Mycroft’s neck--breathing in his scent and dragging his lips across the smooth skin. “How exactly were you going to make this worth my while?” He breathed, blood pulsing its way south and feeding his growing arousal.

“You did say to offer you a drink, did you not?” Mycroft’s tone was almost mockingly cool, and Lestrade couldn’t help but press himself more fully against the other man, trying to ease the ache in his loins.

“Don’t toy with me, Mycroft. You know what I want.” Lestrade slipped one arm around Mycroft’s waist, letting his hand slide over the soft stomach and down to the bulge hidden beneath Mycroft’s trousers. “I’d say you know exactly what I want.”

The elder man’s head had tipped to the side just enough to give Greg the answer he was looking for, and he gave a squeeze to Mycroft’s cock as his mouth assaulted the skin under his jaw. “And what about your wife?”

“It’s not her I want.” Greg replied, slipping the suit coat off Mycroft’s shoulders and tossing it aside. He felt Mycroft tense, trying to look in the direction that Greg tossed his jacket, but Lestrade nipped at his neck. “Leave it.”

Mycroft gave in, relaxing again under Lestrade’s ministrations and Greg moved his hands to the belt buckle, slipping the leather strap from where it was notched in the brass prong and letting it hang open as he worked the button and zip on the trousers and slid his hand inside. Lestrade groaned softly against Mycroft’s neck, rubbing himself against the taller man as he palmed the budding erection through soft cotton pants.

“I was half expecting silk,” Greg teased.

“Somehow I doubt you’re too disappointed,” Mycroft replied with some effort, still trying to hold on to his authoritative demeanor. When Greg’s hand slipped down the front of his pants, Mycroft drew in a breath through his nose, one hand moving back to grasp the Inspector’s thigh.

“When’s the last time you…” Lestrade murmured as his fingers curled around the sizable girth.

Mycroft licked his lips, his eyes fluttering closed as he rapidly spiraled out of control. “It’s been...a while.”

“I’ve never done this with a bloke…” Lestrade admitted, his hand stroking Mycroft within the confines of the pants and trousers. “Not yet, at least.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Lestrade’s hands yanked away from him before grasping his arms and spinning him around. In nearly the same second, those hands were cupping his jaw, drawing him down several inches as the Inspector kissed him hard. Greg pressed Mycroft back against the wet bar, feeling the hardness against his hip. 

Lestrade pulled back, breathless, and reached for Mycroft’s tie, dragging the knot away from his would-be lover’s throat. “Touch me.” He told the other man, dark eyes sweeping over Mycroft’s face as his fingers set to work on the buttons down the front of the crisp white shirt. “Go on…”

Licking his lips, Mycroft reached up and mirrored Lestrade’s actions, slowly working open the Inspector’s shirt buttons. Greg could tell that Mycroft was completely out of his element, but wanting this no less. It left him wondering about the man’s past experiences. Did posh men simply sit around eye fucking one another because actual physical contact was too common? Mycroft had said that it had been a while...had he always been the aggressor of a relationship? His hesitance now would suggest not. It was curious...and frustrating, as Greg longed to be touched by the manicured hands.

Stopping at the button just above Mycroft’s waistcoat, Lestrade wrapped his fingers around Mycroft’s wrist and moved his hand down over the bulge in his trousers. Their eyes met and Lestrade watched the last of Mycroft’s control drain out of the blue orbs as his pupils dilated with lust. A wicked grin curled the Inspector’s lip, “There you are...come here…”

Wrapping his hand around Mycroft’s tie, he pulled the other man back down, seizing his lips. Mycroft moaned softly, his hand now moving over the crotch of Lestrade’s trousers, creating a delicious fire with the friction. Greg groaned, pressing his hips forward against the hand and biting Mycroft’s lower lip before releasing him and stepping back enough to remove his own clothes.

“Turn around,” Lestrade ordered, kicking off his shoes and dropping his trousers. Mycroft obeyed, turning back to face the bar and gripping the countertop in anticipation. Stepping back up against Mycroft, Lestrade pushed the other man’s trousers and pants down his hips, letting gravity drag them down the pale legs. Both men were still mostly dressed from the waist up, but Lestrade didn’t care. He was hot and he was hard and he wanted Mycroft Holmes in the worst possible way.

Pressing his lips against Mycroft’s neck again, Lestrade groped the other man’s arse, squeezing as he rubbed himself between the fleshy hemispheres. Mycroft made a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper as his head lolled back and he pushed against Lestrade. With a near breathy sigh, Mycroft uttered only one word. “Gregory…”

Lestrade growled against Mycroft’s neck, the urge to just plunge himself inside of the other man threatening to overrule his sense in the matter and he gave another hard squeeze before releasing Mycroft with one hand. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, Greg sucked on the first two digits, making them slick with saliva before spreading Mycroft and running the fingers across the puckered hole in a gentle tease.

Mycroft shuddered slightly and Greg watched as he bit his lip, fingers once again gripping the countertop tightly. The Inspector slowly began to work his index finger inside of the elder Holmes, forcing himself to keep a lid on his enthusiasm and not rush through the initial penetration. The intrusion was met with some resistance--the body’s natural inclination to tight and clench doing nothing to calm Lestrade’s libido as he imagined just how those responses would feel on his cock. He reached around Mycroft, taking hold of the protruding cock and stroking with a firm grip.

Unable to divide his attention between the sensations, Mycroft gave himself over to the pleasure of Lestrade’s hand on his cock, allowing the rest of his body to relax. Greg took advantage of the moment, slipping his finger a little further into Mycroft and giving a cursory stroke to the muscles. A soft moan escaped Mycroft’s lips and he bent a little further over the countertop, lightly pushing himself back on Lestrade’s finger and taking more of the digit inside of him. Greg slowly twisted and rotated his finger around, pulsing it gently to elicit more pleasure. Mycroft was moving against the hand around his cock, head tipped all the way back on its axis and sighing almost uncontrollably.  
With another salacious lick of his lips, Greg began to ease his middle finger into the tight ring of muscle. Mycroft tensed momentarily as he was further penetrated, but Lestrade countered with a well-timed squeeze of his cock. “I love watching you like this...seeing you at my mercy.”

“Don’t be...mmph...crass.” Mycroft breathed.

Lestrade chuckled softly. “That wasn’t crass, Mycroft, that was just the truth. Crass would be saying how fucking hard I am just thinking about my cock in your tight arse.” Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s neck again, the tip of his tongue drawing a wet line up to the other man’s ear before teeth grazed his earlobe. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you right now...”

“No, No, NO! You fucking wankers!!” 

Lestrade’s vision of Mycroft bent over the countertop vanished as the man at the end of the bar began shouting at the television, signalling the end of the rugby match and the ultimate loss of his team. Realizing that there were two empty glasses in front of him, Lestrade nearly chuckled at how carried away in his thoughts he’d gotten until he felt the tightness in his trousers and the dull ache of his arousal.

“Bugger…” He muttered, looking down at the very obvious erection hidden beneath the thin fabric. Taking a deep breath to try and quell his excitement, Greg knew there was only one way to satisfy the yearning, but his infuriation with Mycroft was warring with the desire. He didn’t want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing how much the thought of fucking him affected Greg, even when they’d had a row. 

Lestrade shifted on the bar stool, intent on ignoring his throbbing cock, but the fabric pulled across him almost like a gentle squeeze and he growled softly. “Sod it…” Managing to slip off the bar stool, Greg hurried towards the toilets, thankful that that the pub was relatively empty so that no one took notice. Pushing his way into the men’s toilet, Greg locked himself into a stall, leaning against the wall as he rubbed himself through his trousers. Greg let his mind wander back to the night of his first encounter with Mycroft, after his lover had been thoroughly prepped. 

Mycroft’s legs were slightly spread, his arse pushed out in invitation. He was practically begging--as much as the elder Holmes would ever beg for anything. Lestrade’s cock was straining upwards at full attention, the thick head weeping in anticipation. Taking his cock out in the toilet stall, Greg swirled his thumb over the head, recalling how he had spread the fluid around in the same manner to slicken himself up for his entry. Between the spit and the precum, Greg knew that Mycroft was prepped, but that it would still be somewhat rough without proper lubrication.

He fisted his hand tightly over his cock, closing his eyes as he imagined Mycroft’s bare bottom bent before him. Rubbing the head of his cock at Mycroft’s entrance, Greg had nearly lost his control yet again, gripping the other man’s hip as he slowly worked the tip in. Mycroft moaned loudly, his hand reaching back and grasping Lestrade’s thigh.

“Stroke yourself,” Greg murmured aloud in the stall, recalling his words to Mycroft. Those long, manicured fingers had wrapped around his cock, pumping in stuttered strokes. “Yes…”

Lestrade fucked his hand slowly, reliving that first night.

As Mycroft began to relax further, falling into the pleasure, Greg was able to push his way deeper inside, hips thrusting in a steady, gentle rhythm. Running his hand along Mycroft’s spine, Lestrade, pressed him further down over the counter and took advantage of the new angle by burying himself deeper. Mycroft’s body automatically tensed in response and Lestrade swore as his knees nearly buckled.

“Oh, Christ...don’t do that.” 

Mycroft looked back over his shoulder at Greg with a hungry look in his eyes, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. “As if I have any control left.”

Emboldened by that look, Greg gave a hard thrust, making Mycroft cry out and grasp for purchase on anything within his reach. A glass was nearly knocked over, but Lestrade paid it no mind as he thrust in again, then again. Mycroft was tight and hot around his cock, offering resistance in and out, and fitting around him like an old glove. It was definitely different than sex with a woman, but there was something more erotic about this act. Lestrade found himself wondering if it was just the man, but as Mycroft began to match his thrusts--pushing back against Greg’s forward motion--he decided he didn’t really care what it was.

“You like that?” Greg murmured, leaning his head back against the wall of the stall.

“Yes…” Mycroft answered in a hushed, breathless voice. “Oh… Gregory…”

“Mycroft…” The whispered word seemed to echo in the stall, and Greg gripped himself tighter, groaning as his balls drew up against his body, threatening to empty themselves before he was ready. He licked his lips and slowed his pace, letting the memory play out in his mind.

Placing both hands on Mycroft’s hips, he held the other man in place as he bucked into him. Head dropping back, Greg closed his eyes as he drove himself closer and closer to completion. The man at his mercy was biting his palm, trying to stifle his cries of pleasure and Lestrade grabbed his arm, pulling it behind Mycroft’s back and twisting it up so that he couldn’t fight free. 

“I want to hear you,” Greg panted. “I want you to tell me how good it feels being fucked.”

Mycroft seemed to stutter at that, and Lestrade looked at him, finding a faint blush on the man’s face. He grinned to himself, twisting Mycroft’s arm a little more and making the other man hiss as pain shot down from his shoulder. “It feels...phenomenal.”

Lestrade relented his hold on Mycroft’s arm, but kept it pinned behind his back. “I’ll take that. Never been called phenomenal before.”

Mycroft glanced back over his shoulder once again, this time his expression unreadable, but then Greg felt him clench around his cock, making him cry out in response. Mycroft kept the muscles tight as Greg fucked him hard, trying to reassert some power into their dynamic, but quickly losing it again as a deep thrust found his prostate.

“Oh!” Mycroft couldn’t contain the shout of pleasure, and Lestrade’s fingers were almost bruisingly tight on his hip as he pulled Mycroft back against him and found that sweet spot again and again.

“Fuck…” Lestrade moaned, his hand moving furiously over his cock again now as he imagine being buried to the hilt inside of Mycroft. In his mind he watched as Mycroft began to give over to the pleasure first. The uncontrollable moans, his free hand finding his cock and jerking it to completion as cum shot out. His body went rigid, muscles contracting and quivering around Greg’s cock, milking him into his own orgasm.

“MYCROFT!” He called out, spending himself inside the tight hole of his hand. Greg was thankful for the stall wall as his vision faded to black and his head swam. Every fiber of his being was focused on the insane amount of pleasure being released from his cock, and he was fairly certain that without that wall, he would have collapsed to the floor.   
As he began to regain his senses, his hand slowing on his cock but still giving it loving tugs, Lestrade breathed out heavily, looking down at the mess he’d made. “You fucking bastard…” He muttered, thinking of Mycroft. The hold that man had over him was inexplicable. The fact that Lestrade could be completely cross at him and still be so bloody turned on that he had to give himself a wank in the pub toilets just wasn’t fair. No one should ever have that kind of power… and yet, Mycroft Holmes had always seemed to have that effect on him.

Cleaning himself--and the stall--up, Lestrade returned to his stool to finish his beer. He was still angry at Mycroft, but knew there was nothing he could do about it now. In the three years the two of them had been together, it had never been discussed exactly what their relationship was or where it was headed. Mycroft had only ever asked Lestrade to keep it between them--as if he was going to go around blabbing about something like that. Lestrade had been okay with the occasional shag at first, but after his marriage had imploded on him, he found himself wanting more from the man...needing more. He’d never been sure what exactly it was he wanted, and that bothered him almost more than Mycroft’s refusal to be seen together.

Greg could feel his ire beginning to burn in his gut again, putting him right back in the sour mood and he muttered another curse at Mycroft, even though he knew this time he was angry with himself.

TBC


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been so long since I updated this. Sincerest apologies. I hope this chapter was worth the wait. Please ignore any typos.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

Mycroft had never been a fan of running. He’d never been a fan of anything that required exerting himself and...sweating, but he’d decided that if he was going to get in shape, he was going to do it in the comfort of his own home, and having a run on the treadmill seemed like the lesser evil of all the equipment options available. It had been hell at first, huffing and puffing his way through even five minutes on the damned machine. He’d given up smoking, hoping that would increase his lung capacity and make it easier. It had, but only marginally at first. It had taken weeks, if not months to build up the stamina to run for half an hour without collapsing in a complete heap at the end.

Now, Mycroft was pleased to say that not only could he manage the thirty minute jaunt with a fair amount of ease, he was also able to use the time to do what he did best: Think. The argument with Gregory was fresh on his mind, and so took precedence over all other thoughts, whether he really wanted it to or not. 

Lestrade was a stubborn man; a fact that had never been a secret or a surprise to Mycroft. The stubbornness itself had never really been a concern to him; rather instead, it was the polar opposite avenues into which the Inspector channeled that particular quality. On the positive end of the spectrum, Lestrade turned that stubbornness into fierce determination. If there was a particularly troubling case, he would throw himself into it full throttle, forgoing everything else--food, sleep, family--in order to solve the crime and see justice prevail. It was a characteristic Gregory shared with Sherlock, though Mycroft was sure that the Inspector’s determination was fueled by emotion and duty, whereas Sherlock was fueled by the need for distraction, pomp and vainglory.

It was the other end of the spectrum that Mycroft always found needless, childish, and headache-inducing--and ironically something else the detective shared with his younger brother. Gregory Lestrade could be the most obstinate man in existence when he wasn’t getting something he really wanted, and what he wanted was some sort of affirmation that they were a couple. For the past year, that had been the underlying cause of most of their arguments. 

Mycroft truly felt baffled by Lestrade’s seemingly incessant need to publicly define the nature of their relationship. When the affair had started some years ago, they had both heartily agreed upon absolute discretion, knowing that one word of it to the wrong person could ruin them both professionally and personally. Not to mention the fact that Lestrade had still been married at the time, and Mycroft had had no desire for his younger brother to ever find out about their arrangement, though there were many times when the elder Holmes had a sinking suspicion that Sherlock already knew.

 _“I’ve been away for two years.”_ Sherlock’s voice echoed in his mind the most recent instance.

 _“So?”_ Mycroft inwardly feared he already knew what connection Sherlock had been trying to make between the discussion of friends and his absence, but remained outwardly insouciant. 

_“Oh, I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a ... goldfish.”_

Mycroft mentally shook off the memory. That conversation had been unsettling for so many reasons--chief among them being that the brothers had never been known for their heart-to-hearts, and Mycroft was not keen on their first revolving around the nature of his relationship with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Whether Sherlock truly knew of their relationship or was just taking a shot in the dark, Mycroft couldn’t be certain, but he wasn’t going to take the bait...from either his brother or Lestrade. 

He felt almost certain that the two must be conspiring against him, trying to get him to let on about their liaison. The balance of probability ruled in favor of that option--it certainly couldn’t be coincidence that both Gregory and Sherlock had been needling him about the same topic--but he’d be damned if they were going to win out over his silence. 

What was the point in defining their relationship anyway? Did putting what they were into words change it somehow? He didn’t think so, but then again Mycroft had little experience with this sort of thing. He’d never even considered the possibility of being involved in such a way with anyone. Ordinary people drained him. Just listening to them made Mycroft feel like his brain cells were committing suicide en masse. He considered very few people his intellectual equal, and had little patience for everyone else.

Meeting Lestrade had changed something within the elder Holmes, however minutely. Not straight away, obviously--he’d still found the then-Sergeant to be exceptionally dull and slow witted--but the more contact they’d had, the more he found himself humored by the man. Gregory had never been one to hold back his thoughts, or his tongue. The unpolished Essex cadence had grated on Mycroft’s ears at first, making him cringe with every run-together word that was uttered from the man’s mouth. He’d frequently fought the urge to correct the man’s speech. 

It had been Gregory’s intensity that had initially piqued Mycroft’s interest. Lurking just beneath the surface of the outwardly mild-mannered detective was a force to be reckoned with. Mycroft remembered the look in Lestrade’s eyes just before the sergeant had manhandled him against the wall and kissed him all those years ago. Those soft brown orbs nearly black with passionate rage. Mycroft had felt the strength of Gregory’s arms, muscles defined by his years as a beat cop arresting criminals. It had been easy to imagine Lestrade subduing some degenerate slum dweller, wrestling them to the ground before securing them into handcuffs. The kiss, though one-sided, had been anything but unpleasant, and had left a stain on the part of Mycroft’s brain that was still capable of carnal thoughts. It was easily the single most exciting thing to ever happen to him up to the point.

Had he not been quite so taken aback by the unexpectedness of it all, Mycroft often considered that he might have reciprocated rather than dismissing Greg that night.

When Lestrade had finally puzzled out the source of corruption at Scotland Yard, and brought the matter to light, the promotion that came with it put the Inspector right into Mycroft’s pocket, though Lestrade had never been made aware of that fact. Mycroft ensured that Lestrade was placed in a prominent division and made certain that the right cases crossed his desk. He had a hand in selecting the team hired to work with the detective, and gave clearance levels to Lestrade that were far above his actual ranking. 

It had been purely for his own benefit to to see that the Detective Inspector was well suited for the tasks he would face. Mycroft’s position meant that he could move any pawn within the British government at any point in time to any space on the virtual chessboard he liked, and having a pawn at Scotland Yard was precisely what he needed when it came to handling his brother. A task he bestowed upon Lestrade the night he’d called for a drugs bust.

He hadn’t expected the arrangement to work out quite as well as it had, however. The pair had forged an alliance all on their own, where Sherlock often consulted on cases and Lestrade had informed on him to his elder brother. It was a neat package, Mycroft had concluded; a happy accident that had lended itself to another very unexpected turn of events. 

The more Mycroft communicated with Lestrade about Sherlock, the more that stain on his brain began to seep through into conscious thought. He began to think about that evening so long ago, and--what’s more--began to crave another similar interaction. Perhaps that is what had led him to seek out Lestrade the night of the cabbie incident. In his mind he was calling it an experiment, just to see if the same reaction could be reproduced. He couldn’t bear to admit--even to himself--that he could possibly be intrigued by the prospect of propositioning Gregory.

The results from that experiment had been beyond Mycroft’s wildest expectation, to say the least. A first of many evenings Mycroft would find himself at Lestrade’s mercy. He found a surprising amount of pleasure in being dominated by the other man; a strange compulsion to surrender himself willingly. It was the first time in his life that Mycroft had relinquished all control, and it had been oddly liberating. Discovering a new world of ecstasy didn’t hurt matters, either, of course. Lestrade thrilled him in ways he could have never anticipated.

But it was only ever meant to be purely physical. Love had never been part of the equation. 

He supposed he only had himself to blame for that. He’d known it could be a consequence of inviting Lestrade into his bed. While their philandering had always been strictly business--so to speak--taking place in his office or study or some other quasi-impersonal location, it had become anything but the moment they crossed the threshold to his bedroom. They would lie together afterwards, soaked in sweat and euphoric bliss, and wrapped in each other’s embrace. Though the elder Holmes rarely shared anything about himself, he did listen to Gregory’s lamentations, which often revolved around his failures as a husband and father.

Lestrade felt that he was driving his wife away by being ‘married to his work.’ It had been a constant source of irritation in his marriage, and had also estranged him from his daughter, who was now entering her teen years, and who he barely even knew. Lestrade had never asked Mycroft for advice or any sort of response to his musings, and so Mycroft had never said anything as Greg laid bare the details of his floundering marriage.

 _“Love, honour and duty,”_ Greg had told him once. _“You can have love and honour, you can have honour and duty, but you can never have duty and love.”_

 _“Seems only logical that one should take love out of the equation all together, then.”_ Mycroft replied, offering the first and only piece of unsolicited advice. _“After all, no one ever truly wins with matters of the heart, do they?”_

_“Cor, you’re a hopeless romantic, aren’t you?”_

_“Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment. Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.”_

_“That’s probably not as lovely as it sounds…”_

Mycroft had laughed softly, _“The pleasure of love lasts only a moment. The pain of love lasts a lifetime.”_

 _“Only a moment?”_ Lestrade had challenged, rolling over on top of Mycroft and holding his wrists against the bed. _“I guess I’d better try harder then.”_

It was the only time love had ever been mentioned between the two until the Christmas Lestrade had learned his wife was seeing a fellow teacher. 

It had been Sherlock, of course, who had casually delivered that news. The Lestrades had been making an effort to fix their marriage--with Greg seeing less of Mycroft and spending more time at home when he wasn’t at work. They’d even planned to go on holiday to Dorset to try and rekindle the romance.

Mycroft had just returned home from the morgue, where he and Sherlock had identified the body of--who they thought was--Irene Adler, when he found Lestrade sitting on his front stoop dusted with snow and practically frozen.

 _“What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”_ Mycroft had asked, pulling Lestrade to his feet and ushering him inside without waiting for an answer. _“For god’s sake, Gregory, you’re ice cold. Come, sit by the fire before you catch your death.”_

 _“We’re through.”_ Lestrade had said matter of factly, gaining Mycroft’s attention as he waited for further details. _“She’s leaving me for the PE teacher.”_

_“What happened to Dorset? Weren’t you supposed to be leaving in the morning?”_

_“She’s going with him instead.”_ Lestrade fell into a chair, staring into the fire. _“Suppose it’s just as well. I’m not sure it was ever really going to work.”_

Mycroft poured the other man a generous glass of brandy and handed it to him as he sat in the adjacent chair without speaking, letting the man pour out his frustrations.

_“I think what upsets me the most is that I could have been here with you, where I wanted to be all along.”_

The words had actually struck a chord of fear in Mycroft. Sentiment was not something he was very adept with, and the tone of Lestrade’s discourse was quickly lending towards matters of the heart. Rather than wait to see where the topic might go, Mycroft rose and extended his hand to Lestrade. Gregory finished off his brandy quickly, taking Mycroft’s hand and setting the glass upon the mantle as he let himself be led to the bedroom.

It was Mycroft who had taken control that night, letting his body say what his mouth never could.

They were silent afterward for a long while. Mycroft had taken to tracing random patterns along Greg’s arm as he laid with his eyes closed thinking about everything and nothing at all.

_“I’m starting to fall in love with you.”_

Mycroft’s eyes snapped open, his body going rigid as that same sense of fear flooded him. Lestrade lifted his head just enough to place a kiss on Mycroft’s chest. 

_“It’s okay, I know you don’t feel the same. It’s just that...well, it’s Christmas and…”_ Lestrade let out a huff of air,and Mycroft could sense his embarrassment. _“Nevermind, it was a stupid thing to say. It’s just all the nonsense going ‘round in my head right now. Forget it, really.”_

Placing his finger under Lestrade’s chin, Mycroft lifted the other man’s face until their eyes met. He said nothing as he urged Gregory forward, kissing his lips tenderly. As they parted, Mycroft offered the barest of smiles, stroking his thumb along Lestrade’s chin. _“Merry Christmas, Gregory.”_

Now, here they were some two years and few odd months later, practically living together and Mycroft still hadn’t been able to find it within himself to utter those three little words. Lestrade had long given up on ever hearing it, he knew, but the one thing the detective wouldn’t let go was Mycroft’s resistance to being seen in the same room together. 

Mycroft couldn’t for the life of him understand Greg’s insistence that they ‘go out’ together. He had never been one to pander to the whims of societal norms. He didn’t frequent pubs, he didn’t go to the cinema or sporting events, he didn’t go to parties, and he most certainly would not go to the wedding of his brother’s flatmate just to appease his lover. If Lestrade wanted to be upset with him for that...well, so be it.

Realizing how out of breath he was, Mycroft quieted his thoughts and looked down at the electronic display on the treadmill. He’d run for nearly an hour beyond his normal time. Though winded, he actually felt quite pleased. His muscles had a delightful burn to them, and his normally soft stomach actually felt a bit firm. He pulled up his top to feel of his belly, wondering how much fat that little jaunt had burned off of him.

Maybe he should think of Lestrade more often whilst having his jog…

His thought was interrupted by his mobile. He fully expected it to be Gregory, calling to apologize for storming out, and was only mildly irritated when he saw Sherlock’s name on the screen instead.

Again, Mycroft found it curious that Sherlock would be calling to extend--in his own way--an invitation for Mycroft to join them all when naught but a few short hours ago, Gregory had been the only one needling him about it. He knew, of course, that Sherlock was the best man and would be giving a speech in honour of John, but that was hardly celebration enough for Mycroft to attend, and even less of a reason for Sherlock to actually want him there.

Mycroft wondered, for what seemed like the thousandth time, if his brother and Lestrade were conspiring. Greg had informed on Sherlock for years, could it be that the Detective Inspector was informing on Mycroft as well? The thought seemed preposterous. Surely if Gregory did have a confidant, it wouldn’t be Sherlock. 

Still, the elder Holmes knew that he universe was rarely ever so lazy as to have such coincidences in life. In an attempt to dismiss whatever ideas Sherlock had about he and Lestrade, and to needle back at his brother, Mycroft shifted the topic to that of John and Mary moving on without Sherlock. He knew it was the only way to put Sherlock off the idea of inviting him. 

It was what they did, the Holmes brothers. Rather than offer comfort or a kind word, they disparaged one another. Showing even the slightest bit of concern had always been met with ridicule and opposition from Sherlock. Mycroft had had his heart broken by his younger brother so many times throughout the years--watching Sherlock destroy himself with drug use and other self-harming behaviors simply for a reprieve from boredom--that divorcing himself from all feelings of affection had become a natural learned response. He’d never been a deeply caring person to begin with, but now emotional responses to anything felt most disagreeable.

Unfortunately, his aversion to sentiment extended to all matters in his life...not just Sherlock. Was he fond of Gregory? Of course he was. He would hardly willingly share his private life with someone he cared nothing about. Mycroft simply wasn’t capable of expressing such things verbally, or even non-verbally most of the time. To attend the wedding with Lestrade, even if they did spend the evening ignoring each other on opposite ends of the room, would be a public acknowledgment of their cavorting--at least in his mind. Other people were perhaps too stupid to make the deduction, but Sherlock was not. 

Mycroft simply could not give his brother the satisfaction of knowing the depth of his affection for Gregory Lestrade.

Letting his phone slip between his fingers as he considered whether or not he should try to placate Lestrade with an apology, Mycroft chewed the inside of his lip. Though he wasn’t truly sorry in the sense Gregory would expect him to be, a forced apology would be far easier than trying to explain such complicated matters.

With a resigned sigh, Mycroft found Lestrade’s number and hit the call button. He rarely ever sent texts. One could never be certain who else might see the message.

“Before you say anything, I did not ask Sherlock to call you.” Lestrade’s voice was tinged with irritation as he answered without so much as a hello.

“I didn’t expect you had,” Mycroft replied, listening to the background noise on the other end of the phone to try and discern how many other people might be within eavesdropping distance. “Is this a bad time?”

“Everyone’s just getting seated for the dinner,” Greg answered, a little less ire in his voice.

“I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say...I am sorry, Gregory.” He offered no explanation beyond his apology, and Lestrade was quiet for several moments. If it weren’t for the din on the other end of the line, Mycroft might have thought the connection had been lost.

“I know. I am, too.” The soft response finally came. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”

“Of course.” Neither said anything more before Lestrade ended the call, but Mycroft knew that--for now--the matter would be dropped. He knew it was too much to hope for that Lestrade might forget the argument entirely, but Mycroft would take what he could get. 

He feared that this might be the battle that neither of them would win. If they both refused to make a concession on their side of the argument, then it would become the breaking point between them.

TBC


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you're not here for the smut because this chapter is seriously lacking in it. Soon, though. Very soon.

The wedding reception for John and Mary Watson had been far more memorable than any other reception Lestrade had attended--including his own. Leave it to Sherlock to suss out a murderer in their midst during his best man speech. More than that, leave it to Sherlock to attend what was probably the first wedding in history to have a murder in progress. He’d like to see Donovan carry on now about how Sherlock was probably behind it all…

Lestrade had been the one who had chased after the photographer and brought him back to the reception at Sherlock’s insistence. Sherlock had only said that the man would have photographic evidence of the crime, but hadn’t indicated to Greg that he might actually be the suspect. He’d made the arrest, but had called for another patrol car to take the man in and book him. 

He returned to the reception long enough to watch the couple’s first dance, but didn’t stay for the music and dancing beyond that. As much as he loved a good party, it hadn’t been the best of days and now he had to go back to his office to file the report on the incident before he could go home..or at least back to Mycroft’s. 

Standing outside to smoke a cigarette before making the drive to London, Lestrade pulled out his mobile to phone Mycroft. It rang twice before the elder Holmes picked up.

“Leaving the party already?” Mycroft asked by way of greeting.

“I just arrested a suspect for attempted murder,” Lestrade replied, taking a drag on his cigarette. 

“I beg your pardon? At the wedding? Who was the intended victim?”

“Former commander of John’s. Apparently not a well-liked bloke.”

“It would seem not.”

“See what happens when you turn down accompanying me to weddings?” Lestrade said with a teasing tone.

“I’m beyond regret.”

Lestrade laughed softly at the obvious note of sarcasm in his lover’s tone. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m headed back to the station to file a report.”

“Very thorough of you.”

“I wasn’t sure if…”

“Go on.” Mycroft prompted as Lestrade’s voice fell away with uncertainty.

“Well, I didn’t know if you might still want me to come back over tonight.” Lestrade kicked at the gravel under his feet a little, bringing the cigarette to his lips again for a long, nervous pull.

“Is there a reason you think I wouldn’t?”

“I acted like a berk earlier today.”

“And you apolgised...as have I.” Mycroft reminded him. “I’m not in the habit of holding grudges, Gregory...despite whatever evidence my brother has to the contrary. Arguments will happen, and it isn’t as if this is the first time we’ve had this particular...disagreement. I know you think I'm--”

Lestrade tuned Mycroft out as he heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Sherlock coming up the walk. “I’ll call you back,” he interrupted, hanging up the phone before Mycroft could reply. “Sherlock? What are you doing?”

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” The detective asked, observant eyes flicking down to the phone in Lestrade’s hand. “I need a lift back to Baker Street.”

“I’m not a bloody cab service,” Lestrade found himself saying to Sherlock’s backside as the detective continued walking towards Greg’s car. “Sherlock! I’ve got to go in and file a report.”

“Which you will still have plenty of time to do after you take me home.” Sherlock forced a smile and stood at the back passenger side door.

Lestrade sighed, dropping his phone back into his pocket as he crushed out the end of his cigarette and dug out his keys, hitting the unlock button. Looking at Sherlock in the rearview mirror as he started the engine, Lestrade could see what could only be described as a storm on Sherlock’s face. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock’s eyes met his in the mirror with an unreadable expression before the younger Holmes tipped his head ever so slightly to the right. “How’s Mycroft?”

Refusing to answer, knowing Sherlock was baiting him, Lestrade put the car in gear and exited the parking lot onto the main road. He knew better than the try and make small talk to the brooding man, and so he simply left it, turning up the radio as they drove in silence towards Regent’s Park. 

Sherlock was already opening the car door before Greg came to a stop alongside the curb. “Thanks for the lift, Graham. Give my regards to my brother. Or, on second thought, don’t.”

“It’s Greg, you stupid--” the door slammed shut, and he sighed watching Sherlock let himself in through the front door of 221B Baker Street. “Bastard.”

Digging his mobile out of his pocket, he hit the call button next to Mycroft’s number as he pulled away from the curb.

“For someone as brilliant as Sherlock, your brother is a right twat when it comes to remembering my name.”

“Sorry?” Mycroft sounded nearly amused by the unexpected annoyance in Lestrade’s voice.

“In just the last few hours alone, I’ve been called both Geoff and Graham. It’s Greg. How hard is it to remember four simple letters?!”

“He does it to annoy you, you know.”

“What?”

“He knows perfectly well what your name is, Gregory.”

“Then why does he--”

 

“Presumably because he most likely knows of our involvement, and knows that if he keeps using the wrong name, eventually you’ll say something to me--which, you have--and I’ll be forced to tell him to grow up, thereby alluding to my connection with you and satisfying--in his mind--that we are...connected.”

Lestrade was silent for a moment while he drew a mental map of what Mycroft was trying to avoid actually saying. “Can either of you do anything normal?”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Mycroft was teasing him, Lestrade knew. “I assume Sherlock is the reason you had to ring me back?”

“Yeah, he needed a lift home. He seemed pretty upset about something.”

“Well, John Watson did just get married, didn’t he? Sherlock will think he’s being abandoned.”

“Right…” Lestrade said, not really wanting to understand exactly how Sherlock’s mind worked. “Have you eaten already? I could get some takeaway after I finish my report, if you’d like.”

“Don’t trouble yourself; it isn’t necessary.”

“I’m offering, Mycroft.” Heaven forbid anything be a simple yes or no with either Holmes brother.

There was a pause on the other end of the line for a moment before Mycroft responded. “What time shall I expect you?”

“Two hours, max. I’m just going in to write up the report.”

“I’ll wager closer to three.” Again, Mycroft was teasing him.

“You’re in a good mood tonight. What’s the occasion?” 

“You must just have that effect on me.”

The reply was delightfully surprising and Greg couldn’t help but smile at the rare sentiment. “Have I?”

“Tick tock, Inspector.” Mycroft replied, attempting to shift the subject away again by reminding Lestrade he still had work to do. 

“Alright, alright…” Lestrade rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you in two hours.”

“Three.”

“Two!” Lestrade insisted before hanging up. 

\--

Two and a half hours later, Lestrade spilled in through Mycroft’s front door, winded from having rushed from the car to the front door with his sacks of takeaway. He was trying to make it inside by 29 after, just so that he could argue it was closer to two hours than three, but a quick look at his watch told them he’d missed it by a minute.

“Bloody traffic lights,” he muttered, tossing his keys onto the table in the foyer and setting the bags down long enough to shed his coat. When he turned to head towards the kitchen, he saw Mycroft leaning against the door to his study, brandy glass cradled in his left hand, and a smirk painted across his face.

“I suppose since it was the traffic lights, I won’t gloat.” 

“I would have been here,” Lestrade argued anyways. “If I hadn’t stopped for the takeaway...and then hit every bleeding light in the city…”

Mycroft chuckled ruefully, moving to pluck the bags from Lestrade’s hand and leaning in to kiss his lips softly. “Go change your clothes, if you’d like. I’ll sort this.”

“It’s unsettling when you’re nice; you know that, don’t you?”

Mycroft merely arched an eyebrow, then turned and walked away. 

Lestrade pulled his tie loose as he headed upstairs to the bedroom to change. Though the two hadn’t moved in together full-time, Mycroft had designated a few drawers and closet space for some of Greg’s things. Greg had done the same at his own flat, but Mycroft never really fancied staying there for any length of time, and as such had left very few personal items.

He hung the tie up in its designated spot on the tie holder, then put his trousers and dress shirt in the hamper that would be taken for laundering. Though Greg never minded hanging up clothes back on the hanger and wearing them again before washing, Mycroft had found that to be an obscene habit and had strictly forbade it when under his roof. And yes, as Greg had learned, Mycroft always knew when Lestrade had tried to get away with it.

Dressing down in a pair of jeans and his favourite arsenal jersey, he slipped his feet into a pair of trainers, then jogged back down the stairs. Since it was a more casual dinner than most, Mycroft had plated their food and set it on a smaller table in his kitchen rather than his formal dining room. He was just removing the cap from a bottle of beer when Greg joined him. 

“So, how’d you occupy your day without me?” Lestrade asked as he took the beer Myrcoft offered and sat at his usual place at the table.

“Do you really think my daily activities have changed simply because you and I are…”

“In a relationship,” Greg finished when Mycroft struggled to say the word. “And, yeah, I do. Unless you were always in the habit of shagging coppers before I came along.”

“Hardly. However, I can hardly be ‘shagging’ anyone if you’re not here. I have more than enough work to keep myself occupied.”

Greg made a sound of disgust as swallowed a swig of beer. “You didn’t really work did you?”

“I did a great many number of things. Work related and non.” Mycroft replied, pouring vinegar over the fish and chips Greg had picked up. “So, the wedding seems to have had quite a bit more excitement than you anticipated.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable by talk of a relationship again?” Lestrade couldn’t help but smirk a little, knowing Mycroft was shifting the topic purposefully. He knew he was needling Mycroft now, but it was somewhat satisfying to watch the other man squirm. “Just say it, we’re in a relationship.”

“Gregory…” Mycroft’s tone was one of warning.

Raising his voice to a shout, Lestrade cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound.“Are you afraid the neighbors might hear?”

His only response was a disgruntled and disapproving look from Mycroft.

Greg laughed incredulously, shaking his head. “You do realise that no one cares, don’t you? No one gives a toss that you and I are seeing one another. Except you.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but the words were stuck in his throat like a fish in a bird’s craw. 

“Go on, then,” Lestrade challenged, biting into a chip as he sat back in his chair, waiting for Mycroft to give another excuse. “Let’s hear it.”

Again, the elder Holmes gave a look of disapproval to the Inspector. “I realise that...feelings...comes easily to most people, Gregory, but I am not ‘most people.’” 

“No? Really?” The sarcasm was dripping from each word.

“Do you actually intend to let me speak, or do you plan on commentating everything I say?”

“I don’t want excuses any more, Mycroft. I want an honest, heart-felt answer. And don’t say you don’t have a heart because I’m not that stupid.”

“I have always been honest with you, Gregory. I’ve never deceived you about my...failings in matters of romance. If I seem incapable of expression my feelings, it is simply because I have none.”

“Bollocks.” Greg said around a mouthful of fried fish. “Just because you won’t say it out loud doesn’t mean you don’t feel something, Mycroft. I think you’ve tried to convince yourself that you’re completely hollow inside, but I know better. You’re either afraid to admit you love me, or you’re ashamed of it, so which is it?”

“You’re making the assumption that I actually do love you.”

Mycroft had meant it only as a point of argument, but he could see immediately that the words had deflated Lestrade, and he realised that they were suddenly at the crossroads of a very precarious moment. The wrong words now could end it all. Wiping his hands on his napkin, Mycroft pushed his plate away and folded his hands together, resting his elbows on the table as he collected his thoughts.

“If I may speak freely without interruption…?”

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest but nodded.

“I am neither ashamed nor afraid to admit that I love you, Gregory, but love is a foreign concept to me. It’s a language Sherlock and I never learned how to speak. I have never known love, therefore I cannot be certain that what I feel for you is love. Do I care for you? Oh yes, I care a great deal for you. If I didn’t, believe me, you would not be sitting here now. But when I say that I am incapable of expressing my feelings, I am not being hyperbolic. Whatever I feel, whatever this is between the two of us, I am not keeping it to myself out of spite or priggishnesss. I, quite simply, don’t know.”

Greg mentally chewed on what Mycroft had just, very candidly, told him for a long minute. “Okay, but can I just ask...if you do care but you just don’t know how to say it...how does that affect us going out to dinner, or to John Watson’s wedding together? I mean, you do see my point that the two aren’t exactly mutually exclusive, right?”

Mycroft sighed softly. “Yes, I do see your point. I suppose, in a way, I am reluctant to be seen in public, but it’s not as much of a reflection on you as it is an unwillingness to make myself and those around me a target. I’m a high-profile official of the government. There are any number of people who would love to try and blackmail me, and an even greater number of people who would love to exploit my weaknesses and try to hurt me. I would rather they did not do so through you.”

Biting his lower lip, Lestrade felt almost convinced, but it still didn’t explain the wedding today where there had been no press and no one who even knew Mycroft beyond their small circle of acquaintances. “So Sherlock has absolutely nothing at all to do with it.”

“I will admit Sherlock does have a small impact on my decision--”

Greg let his head fall back, laughing sardonically. “I knew it. I knew it was about Sherlock finding out. You do realise he already bloody knows, don’t you?”

Mycroft frowned with his displeasure. “The possibility had been considered…”

“He doesn’t care, Mycroft. He’s had plenty of opportunity to make a fuss, have a laugh, or whatever it is you’re expecting him to do, but he’s done nothing. In fact, I think he’d prefer to ignore it.”

“He’s not ignoring it, believe me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I know how my brother’s mind works, Gregory, and let’s just leave it at that.”

Greg sighed heavily, picking at the fish on his plate. “So what now, then?”

“Meaning?”

“You don’t know if you love me, you don’t want us to go out in public because you’re afraid--”

“Reluctant.” Mycroft corrected.

“‘Reluctant’ to have someone use me against you, or because Sherlock might say something...so where does that leave us?”

“It leaves us where it has always left us. Right here, together.” Mycroft said as he reached across the table and placed his hand over Greg’s. “I know it’s important to you that we do things normal couples might do, but you and I are not a normal couple, Gregory. You are on your way to being promoted to Chief Inspector and I am someone who has the ear of our Queen and Parliament. You might consider yourself just another Yarder, but you have earned a reputation for yourself. One that has not gone unnoticed by those with higher authority. Beyond that, our shared acquaintance with Sherlock means that anything we do--private or not--will become, if it hasn’t already, common knowledge to him.”

“I don’t care what your brother thinks about us, Mycroft.”

“No...but I do, for the simple fact that I do not wish to give him any opportunity to ridicule you.” Mycroft waited for Lestrade to argue with him, but when the Inspector remained silent, he continued. “If this, what we have now, is not good enough for you, then I must apologise because--at present--it is as much as I can offer you. However, if you will agree to let go of the idea of us being together publicly--at least for now--then I will try to offer you a little more in return.”

“How so?”

Mycroft sighed, looking pained. “I will try to express my...feelings.”

A grin spread across Lestrade’s face. He knew getting Mycroft Holmes to admit to that much was a feat worthy of a medal, and--for now--he could accept that Mycroft still wanted to keep their relationship discreet. He stood and leaned over the table, kissing Mycroft of the lips. Hovering just before his lover, he couldn’t help but pester him a little more. “Admit it, you do love me, just a bit.”

“Don’t push your luck, Gregory.” He kissed Lestrade’s lips once more, before shooing him away with his hand. “Now, sit down and eat your fish.” 

TBC


End file.
